Consolations

In times of loss

When we find no words to speak of anything

When the narrative arcs we spun for our lives are unthreaded

Suddenly — senselessly.

And all that is left is that

We are here

And it hurts

And that being here has always been born with some resentment.

That is when the body

Quietly

rescues us

It breaths in spite of us

It wakes

It sleeps

It draws us to drink a glass of water and now

We must fetch the glass and

fill it and

rinse it and

before we know it we are doing things again.

The momentum of our bodies

which was always there

Takes lead of our lives.

It says:

'You are the same stuff as the tree

whose leaves, despite it, must green

whose fruit must rot.

And isn't it a relief that at least that was one thing you didn't have to decide.

The body cannot choose to deny itself as we do.

It cannot pretend it is not mortal

or fragile

or suffering

or insatiable

or called to touch.

Neither can you

When the world is flung open and the pretence is

Spun out

Stay there in that place.

I dare you.

Trees — Billy Kidd